


The Gargoyle Wall

by AnonAnton



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bisexual Dean, Depressed Castiel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gay Castiel, Gen or Pre-Slash, Goth Castiel, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Loneliness, M/M, Meddling, Meet-Cute, Normal Dean, Urban Legends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9541076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonAnton/pseuds/AnonAnton
Summary: Dean and Sam are new to town, and making friends fast. One evening Charlie sits them all down around the camp fire and tells ghost stories. One in particular calls to Dean. It leads him somewhere he could never have imagined.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a collection of short stories I'm challenging myself to write this year. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> My [Tumblr](http://anonymousantonym.tumblr.com/). I would love you to come say hello! Or lurk and see updates and general rambling. Either way.

Everyone shivered, looking around them at the heavy trees as they danced in the wind, heavy shadow and lit from below with an eerie red glow. Every one of them anticipating monsters and demons just waiting to leap out at them.

 

“Oh my God!” Charlie yelped, and clapped her hands together making everyone jump and flinch where they sat around the fire. “Have you heard about the Gargoyle Wall yet?” She gasped out in excitement, breaking the tension effectively after the previous ghost story. Her eyes were gleaming, an anticipatory glint lighting them from within.

 

Dean leaned forward, shaking his head and grinning at his new friend. He had been the one to suggest ghost stories and he was already listening intently for more local folk tales and lore.

 

He and his brother, Sam, had only moved to the town a few months previously, shortly after their dad, John Winchester, had died. After a lifetime on the road, with only their dad and occasional visits to his friend, Bobby, they had decided to settle in one place. They had picked the small town, surrounded by pine trees, close to where Bobby lived, the man who they thought of as more of an uncle than family friend.

 

With their new permanence came friends. Charlie and Benny, Victor, Ellen and Jo, Jody and Donna, Rufus too. Within mere weeks they had found them selves a home, friends, family. Sam and Dean finally felt as if they belonged.

 

“Well, there's this local legend,” Charlie began, making eye contact with those remaining around the fire. Ellen and Bobby had moved over to grill burgers on the barbecue, while Benny was grabbing fresh beers. Victor, Jo, Sam and Dean all eyed Charlie with looks ranging from interest to bored scepticism.

 

“If you go down Miner's Lane and take the left at the end, rather than the right that takes you though to Over Hang, you end up outside old Mr. Fitz-Herbert’s place.” She paused, as if to lend her words gravitas, despite having only given directions to someone's home without reference to anything else. Dean had no clue what she was talking about, having not explored much further that work and his new friend's houses. Sam was nodding as if aware of the location, though. Dean shrugged and urged her to continue with the story.

 

“So. Fitz-Herbert's house is, like, this dilapidated, crumbling mansion, right? The main gates are just off this tiny lane, all enclosed by trees and, well, directly opposite the gates, is the Gargoyle Wall.” Her eyes were lit up as she launched in to her story proper. “The wall is really old, piles of rock just balanced up to make this really high boundary to the woods behind it, roots and branches sticking through in places, but not at that bit, just opposite the gates. No, on that bit, the Wall, are the faces of gargoyles, carved deep, each different and grotesque, covered in lichen and moss.”

 

She leaned back a little, pulling her face in to darkness. “Their eyes follow you as you walk past, and watch anyone who goes in to Fitz-Herbert's home.” Charlie folded her arms across her chest, looking satisfied.

 

“So. What, that's it?” Dean asked, confused. “Some crazy old dude carved faces in a wall? Hardly a ghost story Charlie.” Kind of creepy, he'd admit, but scary? Not so much.

 

Charlie leant forward again, her face lit once more by the dying firelight. “Nope! Those face are old, some one them. Really old. People say that before that mansion was built, an old witches cottage stood there. The man who had the house built, knocked down the witches cottage to build his home, but even then, there had been Gargoyles in the wall. That's why the gate is opposite, so the faces could deter people wanting to hurt the old widower who build the place.”

Dean wrapped his cold hands around the empty beer bottle he was holding, wanting to hear more.

 

“The story goes that this super rich widower finally moved in, after waiting an age for the house to be built. It kept running in to problems so it took a long time. He was already old when he commissioned it, this big rambling place, so when he finally moved in, he realised he needed help running it. This was about a hundred years ago. He hired a woman from the village, as it was then, to visit weekly and clean and tidy and bring in groceries and things.”

 

“She always went back home after spending the whole day there with this horrible feeling in her bones, of loneliness and desolation. Every time she was home, it took days before she could feel happy again, relying on being surrounded by family and friends to, almost warm her through again.”

 

Dean frowned and felt Sam go tense beside him, finally, the story was getting interesting.

 

“You see, the thing was, apart from her, no one ever went to visit the old man. His wife was dead, he had no children, or at least they never came to call.”

 

She grinned around her next words. “So, one day, she let her self in and started work as normal, knowing she would bump in to the man at some point, but, that day, she never did.”

 

“When she realised he was missing she searched the house from top to bottom, all over the grounds, not a thing was out of place, but there was no sign of the widower. She eventually ran down to the village and called for help.”

 

“By the time they had raised a search party, it was dark. With torches held high the men, women and children from the village searched everywhere they could, splitting off in to groups, even searching the woods, calling is name- They couldn't find him.”

 

“They searched for hours, but eventually they decided to call it a night and they all decided to go home, shrugging their shoulders and wondering where he could have gone, hoping and wishing that it hadn't been brigands or highwaymen. Now, they had practically brought everyone from the village with them, only the elderly, sick and the youngest and their mother's left behind. So, the group were paused at the gates, waiting for the older ones to catch up. One of the older kids, though, grew bored and wondered through the gates.”

 

Dean couldn't help himself. “And…?”

 

“Well, the girl was staring straight at the Gargoyle Wall, all colour drained from her face, and pointing. She was pointing at a new Gargoyle, near the bottom of the wall. It was fresh and clean. Nothing growing on it, the lines still sharp and clear, the anguish on it's face obvious to see.”

 

Charlie's face was a delighted mask at having drawn Dean in to her tale. “From then on, the village avoided the mansion, so only outsiders ever moved in there. No one lasted very long, until Old Fitz-Herbert that is.” She grinned again, a mug smirk lighting her face. “Three of them disappeared, each followed by a new Gargoyle on the wall. But that's not all!” She raised a finger abruptly to mark her point, making Dean flinch a little. “People form the village went missing too, and strangers passing though, especially strangers. Not many, but enough to note. Each time a new face appeared on the wall, clean and sharp.”

 

Dean was absorbed. “the last new gargoyle that appeared was about fifty years ago, though.” She said, looking a little sad at the thought. Dean shook his head, pulling his self back from the slightly chilling tale.

 

“But-” Charlie continued unexpectedly, a new light in her eyes, “there's this other story, well, it's the same one, really.” Dean frowned wondering what she was on about.

 

“So. About thirty years ago, when my mom was, like, twenty-five, another person went missing.” Charlie actually looked a little disturbed as she switched tack to this related story, leaving Dean just as intrigued as he had been moments before.

 

“So, my mom told me about all this, like, she actually experienced it, knew the guy, sort of, and everything, even witnessed it a bit!”

 

“There was this man who lived here at the time. No one liked him, hardly knew him. He was practically a ghost. He was really creepy, apparently. Tall, gaunt, dark hair. He never spoke to anyone. He had dark circles under his eyes. Always wore black… I mean, now, there'd be an online community for him to find friends in, if no one here likes him! But… then? He was ousted by the town, even more than he had done to himself. Back then, this place was kind of backward. Being so out of the way, there was practically no communications beyond the town limits. So, when he got blanked by the town's people, he had literally no one to talk to.”

 

“So, mom had to walk through that alley every day for a few months, she was babysitting for the Sykes' in Over Hang. One day she noticed him leaning against the railings looking at the Wall. A few days later, he was there again, hands in his pockets, glaring at the Gargoyles. Another few days, he was there again. Pretty soon, he was there every single day, just staring from across the alley usually, sometimes up close and looking at the faces. He was there for weeks, until, on day- He was gone.”

 

“It took a few days for anyone to really notice that he wasn't just missing from the ally, but gone completely. His home was empty, his bed not slept in. When the town caught on what had happened, they rushed to the Wall… But there was no new Gargoyle.”

 

“There were pretty mixed feelings when they never found one.” Charlie looked upset and sad at that, like Dean, feeling hurt on the man's behalf that someone a little off, a little different had attracted to much hate.

 

Dean, though, was fascinated. He felt something pull at him at the thought of the strange character being ignored by a whole town, following where other lonely people had gone before him, but, maybe, never quite making it. He felt a deep gnawing need to go and find the man. He knew, if it weren't for his brother, steadfastly by his side his entire life, and now his new friends, he could have been in a similar position him self, lonely and unwanted.

 

“Shit! Charlie been tellin' her favourite ghost story again?” Benny interrupted in his soft warm voice, making everyone around the fire jump, breaking the tension easily as he handed out beers.

 

Benny laughed a little before sitting himself next to Charlie. “The old man hates that tale bein' told,” he said with a grin. “Got investigated back then when that gothy dude went missin'. He'd only just moved in, but had already forked out for CCTV over his gate. God knows why. Good thing though, the cops never found anything. The footage showed the guy showing up day after day, then one time, he leant against them, resting his hand on the stone- and the CCTV cuts out. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “When the video resumed, he was gone. Nothin' left. Never seen again.” Benny's voice was quietly gleeful, where Charlie looked a little sickened, mirroring Dean's own feelings.

 

He couldn't get the image of a tall and dark man, intrigued by a wall of carved faces, and being taken by then out of his head.

 

But, if that were the case, why hadn't a new Gargoyle appeared?

 

He shivered and shook himself. _Because it's a story,_ he told himself, and grinned, tuning in to Benny's new tale about ancient people falling in love over the flames of a barbecue and grilled ground beef.

 

-

 

“No good will come of it, kid.” The mail man said as he passed Dean, where he stood in front of the run down mansion's gates, looking at the green stained wall, covered in terrified, grotesque faces.

 

Dean grunted, but continued to stare, drawn in, unable to look away.

 

It had taken him three days to find the time to walk down to the lane and investigate Charlie's words himself. He had dreamed about the Wall during the night, eyes watching him in the dark, and found himself thinking of it during the day at work. He couldn't escape it.

 

He ran his finger tips over the faces, avoiding touching their bared and wide eye balls, brushing the lines of their noses and lips. He found himself whispering apologies to them, feeling bad that they were stuck there, unable to move, talk, or see anything beyond their stone field of vision.

 

He spoke to each one, asking them their stories, never receiving a reply, until a bird calling in the wood beyond the wall startled him, making him look up to find the light hanging from the twisted metal bars if Fitz-Herbert's gate flickering on. Somehow, hours had passed whilst he told each face that it wasn't truly alone.

 

He took a step back the moment he thought he saw one move, blinking in the gloom, a little clump of moss falling to the floor, leaving the stone beneath bare and grey.

 

He shuddered, shivers lancing down his spine.

 

He gave the wall one final once over, marvelling at each individual face before he turned to go- and stopped dead.

 

There, right at the base of the wall, there was another face.

 

It was not like the others. Only revealed at the angle at which he stood, two inches taller or shorter, six to the right or left and he would not have been able to see it. It was still human, unlike the others, all pop-eyes and contorted mouths. It was so faint, the unhealthy light swinging in the breeze the only thing that picked it out. It looked as if it was hiding behind must, or like some statues, with a veil over it's face. Dean could only just see the nose, the lines of it's eyebrows, a hint of it's lip and chin. He thought it looked masculine, but it was hard to tell.

 

He instantly felt twin sensations of warmth and terrible terrible loneliness.

 

He dropped to the floor, ignoring the dead leaves and the mud, and sat cross legged in front of the final face, still soft and smooth, and so very sad.

 

“Hey,” he whispered to it, and reached out and ran his finger along where it's cheek bone would have been if it wasn't so indistinct, so hidden. He longed to see it properly. “I'm sorry I left you until last.” He said quietly, feeling warmth emanate from his finger where he touched the face's brow line. “How come you got in there, huh? How come you’re not like the others?”

 

He booped it on the nose, it's only really prominent feature, and found himself smiling broadly at it. “You know, I think you're the one I needed to find here. The others are resigned, aren't they? You still fighting in there? Can I help you?”

 

He leant forward, scrunching his belly up to being his eyes as close to the humanoid face as possible. “Would you like me to help you?” He asked it, voice so soft it was almost swallowed by the breeze rustling the pine needles above him.

 

He looked back up at the wall, and, it may have just been the light and the swaying shadows cast by the low hanging branches of the trees, but he was sure that, just for a moment, each and every eye carved in to that rock wall was looking down at him, fixed on him, staring intently.

 

“Shit!” He yelped, as hands, strong as cold as stone, grabbed him and pulled him forward. In, in to the rock, through the faces and beyond and in to darkness.

 

-

 

Dean opened his eyes and saw whiteness. Or, more accurately, nothingness.

 

He opened his eyes again and saw a bank of mist sitting, brooding, a mere two foot from him. It was a solid mass, the stretched beyond his ability to see, distorting his vision and making him feel sick. It was terrifying.

 

He focused on the section in front of him. It was easier, but it didn't let up in it's wrongness. He had to leave, but not with out what he had come for. That knowledge was ingrained, a feeling he couldn't ignore, didn't want to ignore. But, he couldn't focus, he didn't know what he was there for.

 

He took a moment to lean back against the Wall, it still felt hard as stone, even though his eyes or brain couldn't comprehend what was actually there any more. He stared to his front, that bank of nothingness, of cold, white, dead mist. He waited for his memory to return.

 

With a gasp he remembered a face, smooth, sad, soft, hidden and human.

 

He _needed_ to help him.

 

Terror began to rise then, coming in short sharp breaths, as he realised where he was, where he wasn't any longer.

 

“There's no point panicking.” A deep and achingly tired voice sounded, It seemed all around him for a moment. The voice was echoing with sadness.

 

Dean shook himself slightly, the voice had grounded him, brought him back from the brink.

 

“Wha- There's really no point asking those questions in there?” He asked the mist, getting to his feet, only a little shaky. He finally turned and faced the Wall against which he had been resting. He couldn't look at it along it's length, but directly on, it was stone, just like the wall outside, but smooth and clean. More like vertical crazy paving that the rustic and frightening thing on the other side.

 

Dean _felt_ a shift, and in his mind assigned a shrug to the voice he had yet to pin point. “I don't have your answers.” The voice spoke again, and this time, Dean could tell the direction from which it came. He turned back around to face the mist, his eyes skittering off the tunnel between the Wall and the mist, unable to process what his eyes saw. The bank of solid mist scared him, right down to his bones.

 

He made himself look though, to glare at it until he saw something, a dark smudge marring the whiteness, hidden and hazy, but there nonetheless.

 

“That's you isn't it?” He paced toward it, while a snort came from the smudge. “Depends on your definition of 'you' I suppose.” It answered, gravel, thirty cigarettes and a good Scotch whiskey in it's slightly amused tone.

 

Dean hummed in agreement and crouched down next to the dark patch, hidden still, just out of sight by the first thin, but impenetrable layer of mist. “I figured I could come save ya.” He told it.

 

Even though he could not see he, he knew it smiled. “I wouldn't object.” It- He said. With that voice it shouldn't be anything but a man. The rough tone sent shivers up Dean's spine, in a good way, this time.

 

“How come you're here? Not a proper Gargoyle?” He asked, curiosity rife in his voice as he wondered about just reaching in to the mist and grabbing the shape. Something in him warned against it though, gut deep fear of the thick-thin white stuff. He knew instinctively that the true Gargoyle's had moved on, through the mist, were beyond saving.

 

“I… I'm not completely sure. I was alone. Completely. And, I wanted to join the others- I can't explain why. But, when I got pulled through, and I tried to cross in to the mist, I realised that I was missing something.” Another shift, another shrug. “But there was nothing to miss. I couldn't move on. But I couldn't pull free either. I've been here since...” He trailed off.

 

Dean hummed softly in response, absorbing what he had said. “What's your name?”

 

Surprise coloured the air surrounding the dark smudge in the must. “I'm Castiel.” He replied, wonder in his voice.

 

“Cool.” Dean smiled. “Nice name. It's great to meet you Cas,” his smile turned in to a grin. “I'm Dean.”

 

“Hello Dean.” The voice said, earnestness obvious, as was the smile in his voice. “I'm pleased to have met you too.”

 

“So… Shall I just reach in there and grab you? Or will that make me stuck too?” There was no verbal answer, but he could sense the effort that the blackness within the mist put in, there was movement, pain, exhaustion, interest and desperation.

 

A face started to be visible, still hazy and veiled, but he could see that the man's skin was pale, his hair dark. His eyes were just dark splotches in a wide, angular face.

 

“Hey.” He smiled at the apparition.

 

A gasp sounded suddenly and a hand swung wildly out from nowhere, hitting the barrier of mist, the fingers spread as if to reach out and touch Dean's face before the movement was arrested. The hand pulled back slightly, and Dean wasn't sure if it was the mist stopping him or the man second guessing himself.

 

Something within broke, somehow knowing that it wasn't the mist. He leant forward slightly, moving to rest his cheek in the man's slightly shaking palm, the thin barrier between them like fabric, like oil.

 

A choked off sob sounded from the man as his head ducked down, retreating from view a little, even as his fingers flexed slightly against Dean's jaw line. Even though Dean couldn't see the man's face properly, he saw his jaw move as the word “stunning” was breathed out almost too quietly to hear, reverence in the hushed tone- Until-

 

A wounded sound escaped the man and the hand cupping Dean's face disappeared back in to the mist, hidden from Dean completely, along with the man's veiled face. Something in Dean told him that he man was ashamed, embarrassed, scared and hiding.

 

Dean frowned, even as the thought came to him that he _knew_ things in this place that he wouldn’t ordinarily. The man's reaction told him more than he needed. “Dude… Are you- Are you gay?” Is that- Is that the thing? Like- you do know that's cool right? Now, even here. In this town. Like, I get that in the eighties this place had only just had phone lines put in, but now? Okay, it's still a cell dead zone, but it's a pretty cool place to be.” He smiled and rocked on his heels a little, some how _knowing_ , again, that he was right. “No one cares if you're in to guys. I mean, I'm bi-, One of my best friends' a lesbian. No one is going to sideline you nowadays because of that. That is why you felt so ostracised before, right?”

 

He took a breath and leaned in a little, his nose almost touching he white wall, trying to see in to the mist, trying to catch a glimpse of the frightened man stuck half way in to the veil.

 

“It's been, like, thirty years or something since you got stuck here, stuff's changed a bit man.”

 

There was another bitten off sound and Dean leaned even further in, that cold, oil slick, rough silk touch of the mist wall touching his nose and lips.

 

His eyes widened as, from that hazy whiteness, reared a shape, indistinct and dark at first, and then, lips. Lips were pressed to his, a pair of hands holding his face, still surrounded by that mist, hiding the man's features, and- he gave up and leaned in to the kiss. The man needed this, and it felt right to him, too. Even though the mist froze, the man's lips were hot, demanding and insistent where they were pressed, unmoving and hard against his. He could feel the man's tears touch his cheek, before they turned to ice on his skin.

 

He pulled away after a moment, and managed to catch the man's hand, the mist clinging to Castiel's fingers like the skin on warm milk. “You gotta come out of there if you wanna take me on a date, okay?” He stared intently at where he thought Castiel's face was, “I don't think that the… Inside of a magic wall has much stuff to do… Great for getting to know you, but, you know, Cas, after thirty years, you probably need a shower and like, a change of underwear or something before I agree to go out with you, so…… Ya comin'?”

 

The hand clenched in his, an another sound started falling from the mist, a choking, hiccuping. He realised the man was laughing.

 

“That's it buddy. Come on huh? I could do with a coffee to be honest with you. And, if I'm late for dinner my brother is gonna have my hide.”

 

At the thought of his brother, he felt a tug in his gut.

 

He looked down at his belly, his hand tightening on Castiel's, still hidden in the white sheath of mist, and remembered that he had promised Sam he would be home for lunch, let alone dinner. His brother would be so worried about him, especially with how he had been acting since hearing Charlie's tale.

 

The thought of Charlie, this time, forced another tug in his gut, so hard that he fell backward landing on his ass. He kept his hold on Castiel's hand, refusing to let him get stuck again.

 

“Er, Cas? I think it's time to leave.” He looked up and found that Castiels hand was free of the mist, up to his wrist. Pale skin and his finger nails painted with chipped black nail polish.

 

“I think you just need to keep doing what you're doing Dean.” His voice sounded calm and excited all at once, much louder and clearer too, as if the torn mist was slowly letting him through.

 

So, Dean thought of Benny next, keeping a firm grip of Castiels hand. That resulted in a smaller tug, dragging him back a few inches. Bobby's gruff voice and stupid baseball cap pulled him all the way back to the Wall, revealing Castiel's whole arm, bare and pinched looking, up to the sleeve of his t-shirt, his shoulder and the base of his neck. “Tats huh?” He asked, a smile in his voice as he remembered the Christmas just gone, where he, Sam, Bobby and everyone else had been gathered in Bobby's house, beer and turkey, an open fire, party hats, bad jokes, embarrassing photos, the whole shebang, the room filled with love and companionship from wall to wall.

 

-

 

He landed in the pitch black lane, on his back, the smell of wet leaves in his nose, the squelch of mud at his back, his hand, cold and completely empty. “No!” He yelled, scrambling to his feet, terrified that he hadn't been able to bring Castiel back, hadn't succeeded in saving the man who should not have had to wait thirty years in the cold white to feel like he belonged.

 

A groan sounded by his foot and he looked down, seeing a lump, completely hidden by shadow rolling slowly on the ground.

 

“Cas!” He dropped to his knees again, and pulled the man up, rolling him so that he could see his face in the light of the rocking lamp on the gates, make sure he was real, alive, breathing.

 

“Jesus fuck!” He breathed out, relief coursing through his when he found a pulse and could confirm, for certain, that Castiel was warm and real in his grip. “Holy Crap!” He announced when his brain caught up with his eyes and he took in Castiel's face. Castiel's eyes blinked open slowly, a little unfocused and confused. “It's you.” He ground out, voice just as rough, as he smiled up at Dean.

 

“You're beautiful.” Dean breathed out, before remembering that that wasn't the kind of thing you said to men you had just pulled form a magic Wall thirty years after they had voluntarily been sucked in to it in the first place.

 

Castiel grinned, wide, scrunching up his nose a little, blue eyes sparkling, even in the gloom of the night. “You said something about a date?”

 

“Definitely.” Dean huffed out, amazed, bewildered and intent on kissing the gorgeous man without any barrier whatsoever.

 

He leaned forward to press his lips gently to Castiel's and found Castiel's lips pressing up, up in to his, with a laugh and a smile and fingers entangled in his hair. “Dean.” He whispered reverently.

 

“Hey.” He whispered back, eyeing the Wall behind Castiel.

 

The face, the last face, smooth and sad, was gone, replaced by the warm, glowing and beautifully happy one in his arms.

 

Dean smiled. “Hey.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
